Two months in Montreal have pretty much dimmed the British schemas in my mind, but I knew I was in London again today when I waited thirty minutes for buses that would never come because the student demonstrations against government cuts to tertiary education were going on everywhere. Even more acute was that realization when I finally got to school in the most indirect way possible, and right in front of the very inviting entrance of Goldsmiths’ hung two long, black banners that shouted in bold: “WALK OUT“. Or the fact that the book-return cart was completely devoid of paperbacks, in place of which was a single sheet of loose-leaf paper that read quite emphatically: “Cut off Nick’s Dick”. (I’m assuming that ‘Nick’ here alludes to the Couldry variety. You know, my very esteemed Media Rituals professor?)

And then J and I walked into the main building and heard the chorale group belting out Jingle Bells in a three-part harmony, the kind that makes you want to break out the red cable-knit sweater with the giant snowflake print and sit back with a steaming mug of eggnog. It couldn’t have been more ironic in that single moment, especially when I realized that the great occupation of the Deptford Town Hall took place a mere month ago.

Only in Goldsmiths’; only in London.

On another note, I hope the safety of Nick’s vital appendage hasn’t been compromised.

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